Solly was a lonely soul; being the last Sole in the sea. He swam around in the English Channel, a Dover Sole was he. He swam around other places , too – he believed in swimming diversity, ever since he was at school, and all through university.

He sought a like-minded Sole to be his soul-mate; but, he couldn’t find a single Sole, Solly got into a state.

Swimming the seas from Britain to France, Dover to Calais, Solly sought a Sole called Sally; but she had fled, a tad too late, and ended up upon a ceramic plate with a slice of lemon upon her head – in one short word, Sally was dead. Sad face.

Solly didn’t know this, he couldn’t read; he hadn’t learnt, didn’t heed his mum’s advice to learn the Classics, Plato, Dickens, Agatha Christie – where the plot thickens, like gravy or a Béchamel Sauce ladled upon a fish who is now a main course. Sad face with tear.

Solly swam up and down; with a happy face (not) that resembled* a frown (because it was) until he met Annette. Very Sad Face with Tears.

#SoCS ‘Abash / a bash / bash’ @LindaGHill

“Let’s not be bashful, shall we, you and I, skinny-dipping is just an expression of freedom, why should we have any inhibitions when we were all born naked,”

The Bloggers’ Bash After-Presentation Cool Down was to be held in the almost Olympic-size swimming-pool situated to the rear of the premises; seclusion – guaranteed; anonymity – optional; modesty – unlikely.

When we arrived there was already a seething sea of flesh-tones immersed in the beautiful briny.

“I may just drop into the deep end and immerse myself up to my chin!” I quipped, upon spying the ‘5’ depth’ indicator marked upon the side of the pool.

I never answered myself – a fault of mine that I would never outgrow.

“I’ll give it a bash!” I pronounced bravely. “I mean, what could possibly go wrong?” I also never answered the rhetorical questions that I asked myself – it was one of my unspoken rules.

I leave the rest to your imagination. The slender chances of my completing safely any task entered into were soon dashed upon the surety of my inability to achieve a dignified entry into the water; my loose-fitting skin-coloured trunks a la Fitzgerald’s ‘Tender is the Night’ managed to survive approximately three seconds before they became caught up in the pool filtration system – and the embarrassment was increased a dozen-fold as the pool had to be emptied of occupants and water to allow the engineer to release my…

well, I hope to be out of hospital soon; with my wounds healed and my reputation intact – some hope.

I pop my “Carrots” into the back of my ‘invisible’ van, and drive to the warehouse.

My “Art” is quickly offloaded and carefully packed in recyclable plastic and bubble-wrap. All 15 items (counted once more) are then placed inside a hollow suitcase (empty) and this is taken to a locker at Paddington Station. Placed inside the locker, the suitcase is left for over a hundred years without any disturbance. The key to the locker is posted (2nd class) to an address in Singapore that doesn’t exist.

One hundred years later, Paddington Station is subject to an explosive device that blows the door off of a single locker. Not the one that the suitcase is in; but, for the look of things, all the lockers are removed to be melted down for the war effort – there wasn’t a war, but it’s best to be prepared.

The 15 “Carrots” are discovered by a labourer who was labouring under the misapprehension that he was not going to discover* a life-changing discovery.

I might pop to a neighbours and ask them what my prompt is – but, the hard of hearing and the hard of understanding won’t be much use to me in this dire emergency.

Hold a seance and ask the dead what my prompt is – mmmmm? Well, that may not work without a room full of gulls called Ibble. And the widgee board could be said to have been fixed. Knock once for ‘my prompt is ‘fire’!

And on it goes.

And I only have ten minutes from when I set the 10-minute timer to do all of this!

I’m on a strict deadline here, folks!

I need a prompt, and I need it now – or yesterday would be even better.

Where is it – I’ll check the post box, under the settee, behind the cooker… no, no, and a big fat NO!

None of those places is where my prompt is. Perhaps I. Oils just use last week’s and say that ‘I’m terribly sorry, but my house was ill and my cat fell down.’

That might work in some other,, less stringent, Universe – but not this one – Oh, no.

I shall just have to wing it and work on the basis that if I choose any old prompt there is a 1 in 50,000,009 chance of it being the one – it’s probably a better chance than that, but if you put 50,000,009 on a calculator and turn it upside down you will find the word ‘oooooo’ – now isn’t that interesting? Rhetorical! Question!

Oh, well, I shall have to admit the feet (de feet) and just await a proper prompt so that I can write a proper stream* of Consciousness Saturday piece.

One Day in 1868 At a Cornish Tin Mine.

“Tin! We’ve struck ‘Tin!’ At the mine! It’s gushing thirty-feet high from the drilling rig!”

The mine manager, a Mr. Montague ‘Monty’ Morency, looked at the miner with something of a kind, fatherly gaze.

“Tin does not gush, Stevens. Tin tends to just ‘be’. One of Tin’s most useful attributes is that it ‘does not’ dissolve and run away back into the ground from where it has been found.” Monty stood tall and backed up his words with a stance of particular magnitude and decorum.

“But!” managed Stevens. “It’s definitely gushing, and it’s definitely ‘Tin’ – we’ve discovered Liquid Tin! You could tell Stevens was excited by the manner that he was literally bouncing from foot to foot. If could be said that he was ‘jumping for joy’.

“Now, come on, Stevens; we all know that ‘Tin’ doesn’t pour, flow, decant or run lazily downstream, is how can it ‘gush’? Are you perhaps mistaking ‘Oil’ for your ‘Liquid Tin’?

“No, Sir; it’s definitely ‘Liquid Tin’- Archie says so.

“Archie Lummox ? The great big… well, lummox, has told you to tell me that we have found ‘Liquid Tin’?

Tin-Tin Takes A Walk Along the Cornish Lanes

Tin-Tin – no, not that one – was walking along the Cornish lanes minding his own business, when he saw a strange sight in a field to his left. Looking away, he saw that all was well in a field to his right, so he focused his attention upon that field.

Cows in a line, a line that was a bit too regular for his liking…! And sheep, all exactly the same, facing. The same way and stopping to eat the greenest grass ever at exactly the same moment.

Synchronised Sheep?

Looking up at a solid flap of wings, Tin-Tin saw Geese flying across the air toward the local pond. They were also as one – not a discrepancy between their flights. One almighty ‘honk!’ broke the silence – that had lain unnaturally across the land.

The ‘Honk!’ was then followed by a concrete block of a ‘Moo!’ and a woollen shawl of a ‘Baa!’

Tin-Tin looked back at the field on the left, the strange sight there didn’t seem so strange after all – then the three Llamas stood on a tiny hillock started ‘alarming’ at Tin-Tin. And what a noise that was.

Tin-Tin loved his walks along the Cornish lanes; but, sometimes, they were a bit of a shock to the system. *